


nothing to lose

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - High School, Bobby | Trevor Wilson Defense Squad, Cult-Adjacent Practices, Grief/Mourning, I will not apologise, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Methamphetamine, Murder, Recreational Drug Use, Shapeshifting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, also, also it's a romcom, am i? yes, and you can't stop me, but like cooler, hey look agnes i did it, i am once more a mess, i'm gonna say it now it's an spn au, it only took me what like twenty years, its the WEED baby, jon brings back his wilson family hcs, my emotional support disaster, no i will not explain, okay you know what fuck it, should i publish this? no, they all need hugs jesus christ, you know spn? now make it teen wolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28804863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: "Are you alright, kid?""My dad is dead."That’s odd. The numbness is new.-or; It's sudden, it sends him volatile into uncharted territory, spinning blindly. There's a body off the side of the interstate. It's sudden- Bobby's dad is dead. The funeral is charming, if a little rushed, and the family stays quiet, drawn into their house. 1995 is a winter meant for mourning. Bobby's dad is dead.But Bobby's dad died when he was fourteen.
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer & Reggie Peters & Luke Patterson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Flynn, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Original Character(s), Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Reggie Peters, Flynn & Julie Molina & Carrie Wilson, Flynn/Julie Molina/Luke Patterson, Nick/Carrie Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	nothing to lose

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [YEARS I SPENT ON THE EDGE OF DISAPPEARANCE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269323) by [AgnesClementine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine). 



> im so tired im so fucking tired i don't even know buddy god i need sleep

Bobby’s dad died when he was fourteen.

(No one ever tells you how they cry.)

.

.

"Ow," is the first thing he hears as he wakes up. It takes a moment to register. It takes another moment to register that it came from him. He blinks. The shafts of morning light cut critically over his eyes, retracting through his retina and swelling his head with pain. It's too damn bright. He shifts slightly, turning away from the window, and the sluggishness of sleep was abruptly cut away in favour of a rousing ache through all of his muscle and bone. "Ow," he says again. "Fucking  _ hell."  _ Someone tsks their tongue, and he dares to peer up at them, knowing his face is contorted with pain. "Morning, Kris," he croaks.

She flips the newspaper without looking at him. "Morning." She gestures to a bottle on the nightstand. "Advil?"

Bobby sighs in relief, wincing as he reaches for it and pops two, swallowing them dry. "Fuck," he says again. He rubs at his throbbing temples. Memories are slowly filtering back. Wednesday night. Out on the other side of town. The cab driver nearly stopping him for the shape of his gun beneath his coat. The tearing of the curtains. The shattering of glass. The moment of blinding pain before he plummeted out of consciousness. "It's Thursday," he says cautiously.

"Friday."

"Ow."

"It happens," Kristen says, shrugging. She finally looks up at him. "Wh- stop it!" She slaps his hand away from the Advil bottle. "Go back to sleep," she demands.

Bobby huffs. "I wasn't asleep. I was  _ unconscious." _

"Even better." She slaps him lightly with her newspaper. "You're smarter that way."

Bobby sinks back into the pillows, closing his eyes. It should have been a simple, just a salt and burn, but the graveyard was private property and Patrick had been trapped inside, and- he shoots up, panic licking like flames up the inside of his chest. “How’s Pat?”

Kristen reaches out to take his hand. “He’s okay,” she assures him. “Dislocated shoulder, stitches to the thigh, but nothing we can’t fix. You-” she gives him a critical look. “I wasn’t sure about you. What the hell happened in there, Bobby?”

He twists the blanket in his fingers as he furrows his brow, thinking back. “I was in the backyard with Molly,” he says slowly. “We couldn’t find- the graves were unmarked.” Molly had grabbed his hand in a death grip, eyes wide, frustration boiling over into fear as the house echoed with a yell behind them. “Patrick was inside. The second-floor library.” He swallows hard, his face twisting up. “I heard him yelling, so I went in, and I-” his breath shudders. “I went in, and I saw him trapped behind the piano. It was pushing him into the wall, he couldn’t- it was crushing him, and I-” he remembers the burn of a scream in his throat. The wrench of regret as the piano slid away and Patrick slumped to the floor. The anger- God, the  _ anger,  _ the way it turned into an inferno inside him, burning him, breaking him, bringing out something reckless and raging and feral. “I shot at it,” he says. “And it pushed the piano at me. I tried to dodge, but it clipped me.” He shrugs. “I didn’t realise the window was right there.”

For a long moment, Kristen stays silent. Bobby wonders absentmindedly if he’s off smoking for a while.

Finally, she says, “We thought you were dead.” Her voice is toneless.

“I’m not.”

“We thought you were.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes are sharp. They scrape against him, measuring his worth in blood. “You’re an idiot, Bobby,” she says softly. The chair screeches against the floor as she stands. “Get some rest.”

She takes the Advil with her. Bobby digs out a pack of smokes instead, lighting one and shoving the pack under his pillow. There’s some vodka beneath his mattress if the nightmares get real bad tonight. They don’t usually come in storms until a few weeks have passed, though. Maybe he’ll drink a bit anyway. Just for the kicks of it, you know. Just to get something good in his system. A nice burn to keep him alive.

Yeah. Yeah, that seems alright.

.

.

Even with a water bottle filled from beneath his mattress and five Advil for breakfast- it was nutritious, he’d told Kristen, because they were out of grocery money for the month, and to be both hungry and in pain was just asking for trouble- Bobby feels like hell. He can’t sit comfortably, can’t listen, can’t talk. His back screams each time his bruises hit the chair and his ribs pulse in time with his heartbeat and his breath keeps catching on the inside of his throat, robbing him of his stability and sending him into coughing fits.

“You okay, man?” Luke whispers. Up at the front of the room, their teacher is talking about symbolism, but Bobby hasn’t been paying attention, too focused on the little black dots in his vision. They dart up and down like koi.

Bobby starts to nod, but the movement tugs something in his throat and he crumbles back into his coughing, pressing his mouth into his elbow to muffle it as his entire body shudders painfully, each breath getting ripped from him before it can reach his lungs, the koi jumping faster, faster, splashing water out the edges of his eyes. It’s an eternity before it ceases. He draws in a breath that sounds like sandpaper on steel and gives Luke a weak smile.  _ Just sick,  _ he mouths.

Luke frowns. “You should go home. That doesn’t sound good, man.” Bobby shrugs. “I mean, you-”

The door opens. Ms Morgen’s voice stops in the middle of something about the colour black. “Hello?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” an unfamiliar voice says. “Could I see, uh, Robert Wilson?” Bobby’s head snaps up. Luke throws him a questioning look, but he just shrugs, standing. Ms Morgen nods. “Thank you. Um, you might want to get your stuff, Mr Wilson.”

Bobby can feel all eyes on him as he stands, collecting his things and following the man out. He closes the classroom door behind him. “What is it?”

“Robert-”

“Bobby.”

“Bobby,” the man rectifies. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” There’s pity on his face, living in his eyes, in the creases by his mouth, in the shadows of his brow. Pity makes Bobby sick. He’s seen too much of it for a lifetime.

He squares his shoulders. Whatever it is, he can take it. “And what’s that?”

The moment between is the longest of his life. His question lingers between them, caught in a spider’s web of the silent hall and the silent pity and the silent fear that he prays isn’t blooming behind his eyes. His head is getting light. His twisted ankle is aching, the wrapped bandages rubbing roughly over the tender skin. He swallows back a cough as best he can.

“Your father,” the man finally says.

Bobby’s skin goes electric. “He’s dead.”

“I- yes.” The man blinks, alarm cropping up over his face. “Did they already tell you?”

“What do you- oh.” Bobby blinks. “No,” he says blankly. “He’s dead. He’s dead.” His books slip. “He’s- he-”

The man reaches out, but Bobby flinches, stumbling back a step. “Kid, it’s gonna be okay-”

“No, no, I-” he chokes, his whole body caving in on itself, his bones turning to dust, crumbling down, joints disintegrating as he falls. His knees thud against the floor, and he would have screamed at the pain that thunders through him if he wasn’t coughing, his body jerking, feeling like his chest was peeling back each layer, spilling him open. The floor, surely, is painted red by now. Distantly, he can hear the sound of the man’s voice, but it echoes in his ears like he’s underwater. His vision is being overtaken by a white static, harsh, piercing into his skull, into his brain, blinding his neurons into failing as his body reverberates with  _ hell. _

He comes free of it gasping with his head nearly touching the floor, one arm clasped desperately around his own waist. He has a death grip on his own shirt. Slowly, he uncurls his fingers.

“Are you alright, kid?”

Bobby licks his lips. He can taste blood between his teeth. He thanks God he’s got on a dark sweater- nobody will see a stain they’re not looking for. He slowly blinks. The koi have calmed again. There’s dried tears tossed out from his eyes, sticky and smeared down his cheeks. He sniffs, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and raises to his feet. His books are spilt over the floor.

“My dad is dead.”

The hallway is silent.

Bobby raises his head. “My dad is dead,” he repeats. His voice cracks. “What happened to him?”

The man’s words are tentative. Slow. Like he’s afraid of breaking him again. “I’m not sure I should be the one to tell you, kid,” he answers.

Bobby swipes at his mouth again. “Murdered.”

“Kid-”

“Please,” he interrupts, his voice cracking again. “Please, God, just tell me. Please.”

Another hesitant beat passes. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes,” the man confirms softly. “Murdered. They found him off the side of the interstate.”

Bobby wraps his arms more securely around himself. “Okay.” He nods. “Okay. Do- do I have to confirm, or-”

“No, they’ve gotten your mother to. She just wants you home. She wants you safe,” the man assures him gently.

Bobby could have laughed. She may have put on a show, but his safety isn’t what’s on his mother’s mind right now. He can promise that. He runs his hands through his hair, taking as steady a breath as he can. “Okay.” He sounds more apathetic than he meant to.

That’s odd. The numbness is new.

Patrick drives him home. Ollie is in the backseat, knees drawn up to his chest, staring out the window. Bobby lets his gaze fall over to the cousin next to him. “You sure you should be driving?” he asks. “Your leg’s hurt, isn’t it?”

“Your dad is dead,” Patrick replies.

Bobby tsks his tongue. “Have you pulled your stitches? Kris’ll kill you.”

“Like someone killed your dad?”

“I expect bloodier,” Bobby says. Patrick’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t respond. Bobby looks into the rearview mirror. “You alright?” Ollie gives him a tight smile. “Alright. Well, careful with yourself, kiddo.” He knows Ollie won’t take his advice, but he ought to try anyway. Responsible influences and all. He’ll look away when the pipe comes out tonight and drink from the bottle beneath his mattress and they’ll all wake up in the morning. “Not my dad,” he says.

Patrick’s eyes flick over to him. “Yeah. I know.”

“No, I mean- we’ll all wake up in the morning,” Bobby says, probably nonsensically. “Not my dad, though.”

The car, for just a moment, is deathly silent.

Patrick sighs. “No,” he agrees faintly. “Not your dad.”

And that’s that.

.

.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Bobby glares at Kristen as she pulls out the lighter, gesturing for her to put it down. She points it at him like a sword. “Told you. My mom’s just feeling shitty.”

“Okay.” Alex sounds skeptical. “Let us know when you’re getting back to school. We miss you.”

“I know.”

“Cocky bastard.”

Bobby grins, accepting the knife Ollie shoves into his hand, and says, “Well, I’ve got to go bring Mom her meds. She’s stuck in bed. Call you later?”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” He puts up the receiver and throws himself over the back of the rickety couch, leaning his elbows forward onto his knees. His back protests, but he ignores it. He only ever lets injuries hold him back for a day of recovery. Once he’s back on his feet, he doesn’t come down. “What’ve we got?” he asks, surveying the mess.

Molly sighs, scribbling something in her journal. “Shapeshifter.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“That’s the thing,” Kristen cuts in. “It’s easy.” They all stare at her. She’s got the lighter in her hand still, tapping it against her knee. Doesn’t seem safe, but Bobby holds his tongue. “It might have been anything. An accident. Might not even have known what it was.”

Molly frowns. “Well, why does that matter so much?” she asks.

Kristen and Patrick exchange a look. “Natural order,” Pat says, his voice low. Bobby snickers before he can help it. “Robert, I swear to god if you make the pun-”

“I’m not going to make a pun!” he protects. “I agree. It’s a super natural order.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Bobby shrugs. “Well, whatever. Point is-” he taps the autopsy picture Mom had swiped. “-whatever this thing is, it pissed something off.” Molly still looks confused. “There’s something else here,” he clarifies. “Something we don’t know about.”

Recognition dawns over her face. She nods slowly, staring down at her journal. “So… do we have any ideas on what?” she asks.

“Could be werewolves.”

“Shut up, Bobby.”

“I’m just-”

Kristen points the lighter at him again. “I swear to God,” she says. “You say it every time, and yet  _ never-” _

Bobby puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, maybe this time-” she flicks the trigger, and the flame leaps out, striking over the table. He can feel the heat ghost near his nose. “Shit, Kris!”

She glowers at him. “I warned you.”

Bobby settles back into his spot, crossing his arms. “Still think it’s werewolves,” he mutters sulkily. He doesn’t really. If there was a werewolf pack in downtown L.A., they’d have heard of it already. Mom tracks werewolves with a vengeance. Not for any particular reason. She just thinks they’re fun. Fighting them’s like a dance, she says, a give and take, and it’s exhilarating. Bobby doesn’t really see the appeal. To him, it’s just dirty and fierce and bloody  _ loud.  _ Nobody ever warns you how loud a werewolf screams. Nobody warns you how the earth shakes when the rest of the pack comes running. Nobody warns you how a werewolf cries.

There are no werewolves around here, though. So what the hell got the shapeshifter off the side of the interstate?

Patrick and Kristen are arguing half-heartedly, trading theories. A woman in white, maybe. Bobby wouldn’t be too surprised. Shapeshifters are susceptible to seduction too, and an interstate is always a hotspot for violent suicide. The injuries don’t match up, though. They’re these big, ripping gashes, stomach to sternum. They’re gory and gaping and bloody, but they’re clean. Precise. The autopsy of a living creature. The thing was impaled, too, one side to another, a puncture just above the hip bone. Bobby’s arm stings to look at it.

He frowns, leaning forward again. “Puncture,” he says.

There’s a pause as the rest of them catch up to his train of thought.

“Stick,” Ollie says.

“Spear,” Bobby corrects him. “It’s a spear. That’s not how sticks work. It wasn’t a bullet, not with entrance and exit wounds the same size, and it’s not right for a sword. It’s a spear.”

Molly flips towards the back of her journal, her eyes darkening. “Oh, goddammit.”

Ollie glances between them all anxiously. “What?” His eyebrows are knit together, but he looks more confused than scared. Bobby’s arm stings again.

Ollie’s never been on a real hunt before. He’s come with them, of course, done salt and burns and stuck by someone’s side for more complex things, but never something like this. He’s never tracked a target, never pinned it into a grave and buried it there in its own blood, never felt that liberation of damning your violent hands just a little more.

He’s not ready.

“It’s a draugr,” Kristen answers. “They’re undead assholes, basically. You find the stories in Norse mythology. Vikings and stuff.” Ollie’s eyes spark with interest. Fucking nerd.

Patrick chuckles. “Too much of a dick to die,” he mutters sarcastically.

“Maybe my dad’s a draugr,” Bobby says, stretching back and slinging his arms over the sofa back. “It’d fit him.”

“That-” Kris pauses. “Well, you’re not wrong,” she finally concedes. “That seems a bit disrespectful when his face’s got stolen, though.”

Bobby picks up the photo of the shapeshifter’s face. It’s sort of funny how similar they look. He’d never really absorbed that- Mom doesn’t keep pictures of Stavros around, and it’s almost haunting, seeing his own nose, his own jaw, the slant of his own mouth, in the picture of an autopsy. It’s like part of him’s in that morgue, too.

He drops the photo again. “Doesn’t look anything like him.”

“Bobby-” Patrick starts, but he’s already standing.

“I’m gonna go catch a smoke. Anyone want to join me?”

Kris frowns. “Your cough-”

He slams the door behind him. The air cuts at his lungs, fresh with winter. He collapses onto the front steps. The sky is grey above him. It’ll be raining tonight. Bobby fumbles for a cigarette and lights it, squeezing his eyes shut as he exhales. His nose stings from the acrid smoke. His lips feel raw.

He’s a damn mess.

“I am in need of music,” he says softly. The rest of the poem fails him, but he says it again, opening his eyes and turning his face up into the grey. “I am in need of music.”

He stays there until the moon comes out. It’s full tonight.

_ I am in need of music. _

**Author's Note:**

> hi thank you for reading i love you ((: comment 2 lmk what you thought or hmu on tumblr @bobbywilsonsupremacy !!! i am going to go sleep


End file.
